


protein

by hoko_onchi



Series: the Quames agenda [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bisexual Quentin Coldwater, First Time Topping, Frottage, Just bros being bros, M/M, Quentin Coldwater's Canonical Oral Fixation, Red Herring Dildo, Rimming, Shower Sex, Softbro James, There was only one bed!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:27:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26855926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoko_onchi/pseuds/hoko_onchi
Summary: But his hindbrain takes over when he watches James chugwhiteGatorade, drops of it dribbling over his sharp jawline and down over his pecs. Quentin has imagined more than oncebeingthat drop of Gatorade. Or just—licking it off of him, sweet mixed with salty sweat, his tongue exploring the deep V that leads to the line of his cock.Quentin guesses this is why people use the word ‘thirsty’ to describe the visceral sensation of lust. Because he actually wants todrinkJames. Every time he looks at James doingbro stuff—like justhangingon his fucking pull up bar, lifting weights in the hallway, folding his dumb basketball shorts—Quentin isparched.*“It’s like you were living in a gay Budweiser commercial," Eliot says. "I call bullshit on this whole fucking thing. He absolutely did not pour water on his face or spill white Gatorade all over his abs.”“It was his chest, but. Like, you met James that one time—he’s real. And itdidhappen.”
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/James
Series: the Quames agenda [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019676
Comments: 62
Kudos: 130





	protein

**Author's Note:**

> I had this thing going for a while. I went back and forth on it while writing my serious, angsty fic. I got the concept of Quames in my head from Ameliajessica's brilliant "i dont' wanna say what i want first," and it developed into... this. Which is porn. Q deserves a good time. Why's it 17k? Because I am apparently incapable of writing just one sex scene. There you go.
> 
> MANY thanks to Rubick for her beta work, TheAuditty and AmbiguousPenny for cheerreading and getting super stoked for Quames. To Mizzy and Akisazame for supporting The Quames Agenda. And Buttcasino for putting the phrase "Quentin/James truther" in my head (and for being stoked about Quames).
> 
> Oh, they drink and get stoned, but you can just picture them as 'lightly buzzed' and fully enthusiastic.

Fillory ~ Year Two

_“Did you ever—before me?” Eliot sweeps the hair away from his face. The night is cool, and he’s lying out under the stars with his leg thrown over Eliot’s body. There’s a blanket on top of them and their patchwork quilt below them, and that’s all there is. Clothes were abandoned sometime after the sun went down, and it must be near midnight now. This is just their second week of taking their friendship to a new place, and they’ve both been insatiable._

_“Uh, yeah. God you’re so—self absorbed,” Quentin says, a little belligerent. Eliot snuggles him closer, nosing against his temple. The air smells like autumn. It’ll be cold soon. They should go inside or muster up and do another design before bed or something. But. Eliot is warm and solid, and it’s a lot more fun to talk absently and curl into the length of his body._

_“So you hooked up with a boy?”_

_Hooked up with a boy. What the fuck does Eliot think? He’s a tourist? Or like—does he not remember Quentin deepthroating his dick, as recently as, like, yesterday morning? “Did it seem like I don’t know what I’m doing? Like I don’t know—how to—how to like—work my way around a dick?”_

_Eliot grins, that wide-open smile that lights up his eyes and accentuates the dimple in his chin—breathtaking. He, like, literally, actually takes Quentin’s breath away. “It seems like you mostly know what you’re doing.”_

_“God. You’re an ass.”_

_“I am. I mean when was your first time?”_

_“Oh. God. Like junior year in college. This guy—Daniel. We met through one of Julia’s friends. He was like, average looking and had a decent body and we fucked, like, over the course of a few months. It was—okay. Like—”_

_“Not as good as me?”_

_Quentin huffs. “Jesus. It’s not a race.” He doesn’t tell Eliot that—no—no one is like_ him _. They’re not—there yet. He doesn’t know if they will be._

_“So—he was the only one—”_

_“No. There was, uh. A guy named Peyton. He played fucking lacrosse. I met him on Grindr.” Quentin cringes. “He went to NYU. Not that like. Great. It was—you know. I was. Not that experienced and felt a little gross about the whole thing.” The words fall out in a rush. “And some other guys from Grindr. Also kind of gross.”_

_“Baby, you deserve only the best.” Eliot nibbles at his neck._

Baby _. He’s not sure if anyone’s called him that before. He shivers. “I mean. It is what it is.”_

_“You have me now.” Eliot tucks Quentin right under his neck and strokes his hair. “And I’m the best.”_

_Quentin laughs, shaking against Eliot. “So arrogant.”_

_“That makes this—” He gestures to himself. “—basically like your first time—”_

_“No.”_

_“—because it’s the first time that it’s good. I’m considerate. What every boy needs.”_

_He half-expects Eliot to amend that and say, ‘what every good straight boy needs,’ because Eliot has some half-baked ideas about Quentin’s past. Maybe now that he’s been_ very clear _he was a Grindr ho for a hot minute, maybe he’ll be less of a dick. Unlikely._

_“Also no,” Quentin says, biting down on a smile._

_“Oh?” Eliot feigns disinterest, twirling Quentin’s hair and sighing, drawing him close to his body. “Who’s the lucky guy?”_

_Quentin can’t keep himself from grinning. He bites his lip. “I lived with Julia for like—three years of college.”_

_“Yeah,” Eliot says. He nuzzles into Quentins neck and kisses right at the junction where his shoulder starts. “Another friend of hers?”_

_“Her boyfriend.”_

_“Why, Quentin, I am scandalized.”_

_Quentin doesn’t point out that Eliot is an actual walking scandal, and that Quentin fell face first onto his dick because—_ because _—Eliot is destructively, cataclysmically magnetic. Because, when it came down to it, Quentin didn’t really have a choice. This is where he was always headed. “Yeah, well. They were on a break. They were broken up at the time. So.”_

_“Still.” Eliot is sucking on his earlobe now in an effort to demonstrate his dominance or whatever. “It was good?”_

_“Yeah,” Quentin says. “It was. Really good.”_

_Eliot looks a little miffed, like he should be Quentin’s first ever good sex. Fucking Christ. “Fine. Tell me.”_

_Quentin rolls his eyes._

~~***~~

_Manhattan, August 2014_

The heat index is over a hundred degrees in Manhattan. Of course, James went for a fucking run this morning because ‘it was only eighty-five degrees at six in the morning,’ and he didn’t want to skimp on his exercise routine ‘just because he was _on a break_ with Julia.’ And their boys’ week was going to be replete with takeout food, Costco sangria, and James’ edibles that they broke into on night one. So, he had to _keep in shape_.

James is already in shape. Quentin has taken note of that. Copiously. While he’s doing squats or lifting weights or mixing up his chalky protein shakes in the kitchen, the mixer going off at eight in the morning—every single fucking morning. He always offers Quentin a shake when he drags his ass out to the living room to huddle in a ball at the end of their couch.

Quentin always refuses the offer because the shakes are _vile_. He does like to _watch_ James make them, which is—fine; it’s not weird. They’re roommates. He listens while James lines up his ingredients. James rambles about trying to “bulk up” every morning when Quentin wakes up, even though he’s already a hard-bodied jock who comes in every morning with sweat glistening over his firm pecs and hard abs, the muscles in his arms and shoulders just _moving_ so nicely when he dumps whey and collagen and spirulina in the mixer and—when he _erotically_ presses the blend button. 

Quentin’s been jerking off about it at night. Logical reaction.

James is really inviting that reaction by walking around shirtless with increasing frequency. And now it’s _every day_ , all day, since their air conditioner went on the fritz. 

He wears his basketball shorts—nothing else—and, worse, sometimes _just his boxers._ And James is just so woke and cool about Quentin’s somewhat recently professed bisexuality that he hasn’t given a single thought to being half naked around the apartment where Quentin can just _see him_ and his stupid six pack. 

James has joked a few times in the past month about a threesome with him and Julia, so it’s honestly James’ fault that Quentin’s mind is just _going there_. He’s responsible for launching that possibility into the unceasing hamster-wheel that is Quentin’s brain. And yeah, at first it was James-and-Julia, but now it’s just James. He’s very visually _present_. Mostly naked. Right in front of Quentin.

So, yeah, Quentin is working some of his feelings out with his hand on his dick. Like, with increasing frequency. Like he can’t stop jerking it to the idea of James, who is objectively _way_ hotter than like ninety percent of the population. There’s also something very hot about James’ straightness, which Quentin knows is, like, _problematic_ or whatever. But his hindbrain takes over when he watches James chug _white_ Gatorade, drops of it dribbling over his sharp jawline and down over his pecs. Quentin has imagined more than once _being_ that drop of Gatorade. Or just—licking it off of him, sweet mixed with salty sweat, his tongue exploring the deep V that leads to the line of his cock.

Quentin guesses this is why people use the word ‘thirsty’ to describe the visceral sensation of lust. Because he actually wants to _drink_ James. Every time he looks at James doing _bro stuff_ —like just _hanging_ on his fucking pull up bar, lifting weights in the hallway, folding his dumb basketball shorts—Quentin is _parched._

It’s melodramatic and impossible, and James is very, very straight. And Quentin’s dick might fall off. But he’s unable to get the thought out of his head. James’ muscular thighs and James’ abnormally perfect chest and the smell of James’ sweat. He’s given a lot of thought to what James’ dick might look like—he knows that height and size don’t necessarily correspond to size. There might be six feet of James and also like a sturdy, but average-sized cock. Or he might have a huge, thick dick. He could be like—cut or uncut. And Quentin doesn’t _know_. He wants to _know_. He wants the image like, permanently glued in his brain. Spank bank, _forever_.

Holy fucking Christ, he needs to get laid. Just. When he flicks through the dating apps, he doesn’t see anyone who hits the mark. Not like _James_.

And. The thing is—James has caught Quentin watching him no fewer than six times, and this blessed morning, James _looks back_. He’s grinning, but his eyes are dark and hot, sizzling like the pavement outside. 

“Like what you see, Coldwater?” James gestures to all of himself. And yes, you know, Quentin really does like what he sees, but he doesn’t _say that_. Because he’s not a _total creep_ , okay? Just _mildly_ creepy.

Quentin rolls his eyes, peevish. “You’re blocking my view of the sangria with your protein garbage.”

“Sure,” James says. And he winks at Quentin.

Quentin goes hot over his neck and chest, hotter than he should even in the sauna of their apartment. He wonders if James is going to move out after Julia gets back. Are they ‘on a break’ or broken up? Quentin doesn’t know. He never knows. 

When James comes and sits down on the couch, he has a glass of sangria for Quentin, filled with melting frozen strawberries. It’s cool and sweet when he drinks it. He catches James watching him after they put on yet another movie. But Quentin doesn’t say anything, and neither does James.

~~***~~

_“Thirsty for the straight boy, Q?”_

_“Yeah, well, turns out.” Quentin shrugs, huddles in closer to Eliot._

_“You’re such a cliche. Absolute disaster around both of your roommates.”_

_“Once at James’ lakehouse, I walked into the screen door because Julia was in a bikini and James was in his trunks. I was eighteen and really fucking confused.”_

_“Poor baby.” Eliot kisses him and his pulse thrums hot beneath his skin. “Not confused about what you want now, are you?”_

_“Not even a little.”_

~~***~~

Quentin has been desperately trying to concentrate on finishing _Red Rising_. But whenever he looks at the page, the words seem to shuffle off and slip away into the sticky air of the apartment. He can’t stop thinking of James standing over the kitchen sink and pouring ice water over his face when he came back from his run this morning—the drops sticking to his thick, honey-colored hair that’s gotten just a little shaggy, the water rolling in rivulets down to the hollow of his neck, his rosy pink nipples a little pebbled from the contact of the cold. 

He glances at James, tapping his thumb against the spine of the book casually like, _oh I could definitely be looking at whatever_. James is still shirtless, standing in the kitchen _again_ , eating cold noodles from a takeout box, misusing the cheap wooden chopsticks and dropping noodles on his chest _for absolute fuck’s sake_. He looks back down and tries to concentrate, tries to imagine that the city is covered in snow, that he’s crouched down hiding in it, letting it seep into his skin. 

Sweat rolls down the back of his neck, pooling at the collar of his t-shirt. He swallows, his throat clicking audibly, and he tugs at his collar. He feels like his mouth is stuffed with synthetic poly fill. 

“You look hot.”

Quentin’s heart leaps into his throat, and the tips of his ears are suddenly blazing. “Uh.” He thinks for a bizarre moment that James has just commented on his sexual _appeal_. But Quentin doesn't have any appeal, sexual or otherwise. So he laughs a little. “It’s not that bad. Thermostat says it’s seventy-eight, which is like objectively _not that hot_. Right?”

“You’re wearing a dark gray t-shirt and black jeans.” 

James is right. There’s sweat actually _pooling_ in his armpits. But Quentin doesn’t want to give him the satisfaction. “Uh. No, I’m like. Totally fine. I didn’t torture my legs with like a ten mile run in the middle of the fucking summer. In Manhattan.”

“Central Park is shady as fuck.” 

“Yeah, okay.”

“You know, we should go somewhere.”

“We went to Chipotle yesterday. Turns out sitting there for like an hour and a half gets you like, a talking to from the store manager.”

“They’ve got good air conditioning.” James closes the container of lo mein, and sticks it in the fridge. When he bends over, the muscles in his back ripple. 

“Uh, I mean. We could go to the coffee shop. I’m not sure I need another eight dollar iced coffee.”

“No.” James bites his lower lip, a flash of straight, white teeth. Something twists in Quentin’s stomach; he tries not to stare _._ That’s his whole life right now—trying not to stare at James. He’s not doing well with that objective.

“I mean, uh. We could—” Quentin sighs. “—go bowling? I’m not like. Good at bowling. But—also, it _is_ air conditioned.”

“My parents aren’t at the lake house this weekend. They texted me that they just left this morning. I could _ask_ —”

“Oh.” His heart beats wildly, brain spiraling into about twenty different NSFW scenarios. He’s only _ever_ been to the lake house with James and Julia and James’ bland, rich parents. But this—this would _just_ be him and James. “Uh.”

“There’s air conditioning. No family there this week since they’re prepping for renovation. My internship doesn’t start til next week—and your classes—”

“No class on Monday or Tuesday. And my seminar Wednesday is—I mean, I _should_ be there.”

“Say you have a summer cold.”

“Who _says_ that?”

“You do.” James opens the fridge and tosses Quentin a Gatorade. 

~~***~~

“ _It’s like you were living in a gay Budweiser commercial. I call bullshit on this whole fucking thing. He absolutely did not pour water on his face or spill white Gatorade all over his abs.”_

_“It was his chest, but. Like, you met James that one time—he’s real.”_

_“‘Met’ is a strong word. I saw his milquetoast little posse and Julia’s sad girl cosplay, and Margo and I got the fuck out of there.”_

_“I mean. James is nice.”_

_“Lots of people are nice. It doesn’t mean you have to get to know them.”_

_“Well, he’s hot, too. Which is important to the story.”_

_“You mean your hormone-fueled sex fantasy?”_

_“List-en. You wanted to know, and I’m telling you. It’s a good story. You wanted to know if I had good sex with a guy before you, and I’m telling you. I mean—I get why you’d think it was bullshit? He’s really hot.”_

_“I’m really hot.”_

_“Oh my God—you’re jealous. That you’re not like—the exception to my rule or whatever. That is so fucking weird—”_

_“I am not. Besides, I’ve got you all to myself out here. If there’s a competition to be won, I win it.”_

~~***~~

The drive to the Hudson Valley is only about an hour outside of the city. James is the one with the car—a barely functioning Audi, which James refers to as _vintage_ —and Quentin _doesn’t drive_ , so he gets to watch James’ fingers on the steering wheel, the outline of his thighs in his _goddamn_ basketball shorts. The old Columbia shirt he’s wearing is just shy of too small, tight over his biceps. James lets him pick out the music for the ride, and they listen to _Rockin’ the Suburbs_. They both clap at the right place on ‘Annie Waits.’

“We should stop and pick up some frozen pizza. And some eggs for breakfast. Protein.”

 _Protein_ , Quentin thinks. _Goddamn_.

“Mmhmm.”

James smiles and glances at Quentin, that wide, white smile lifting the apples of his cheeks. His brows are naturally arched at either end, giving him a permanently amused Aryan look. “Anything else you want? There’s a Target like five minutes away from the house.”

 _You_ , Quentin thinks. 

“Nope, I’m good.”

~~***~~

_“A lake house? So fucking bougie. Did he seduce you with a pile of Hudson Valley brochures?”_

_“Uh, no. Just listen.”_

_“Was it a—egg white omelette? No—he certainly wouldn’t know how to separate out the yolks—”_

_“Do you ever listen to yourself?”_

_“No. That would dim out my spontaneity.”_

~~***~~

It is, beyond all the _yearning_ , really good to be in an enclosed space with functioning air conditioning. The sun is setting over the water when they start bringing their long weekend “supplies” inside—including but not limited to a giant handle of vodka, a smaller bottle of gin, wine coolers and beer, an entire pan of pot brownies, two frozen pizzas, eighteen eggs, a metric fuckton of pasta and chips, and several bags of baby carrots because they “needed something healthy.” Quentin tries very hard not to stare at James’ ass or the expanse of his shoulders or the gray-blue of his eyes or the pleasant hairiness of his calves. They make a pizza and put on ‘The King’s Speech’ because it’s one of the many DVDs his parents have stashed in the teak wood entertainment center. 

“Colin Firth,” James says. 

And Quentin nods, not knowing what he’s agreeing with. 

They stay up late drinking vodka tonics on the porch, listening to the crickets and watching for shooting stars (James sees one, and Quentin sees two.) James only mentions Julia once, slurring that she never seems to make up her mind about him, Quentin reassuring James vaguely that he’s right, and he deserves to have clarity—generic relationship garbage that Quentin has honed over the past three years of living with two people he’d give his left arm to fuck. Before they go inside, James rests a hand on Quentin’s shoulder and lets his hand linger there, before slipping lower and resting on his shoulder blade. He tells Quentin he’s glad to have someone who understands him. Quentin nearly chokes on his last sip of vodka tonic.

“You can have the master bedroom,” James says, ever magnanimous. 

“Uh. That’s—I’ll take the bunk like usual. I mean. Or the double in the other room. You—your parents—you know.” He scratches at the back of his head. He’s pretty drunk. 

“You sure?” 

Quentin nods. Honestly—as long as there’s a room with a closed door where he can jerk off in peace before he passes out, that’s precisely where he wants to sleep. He traipses down the hall to the room with the bunk beds. And when he opens the door, he finds—the beds, entirely sans mattress, covered in a blue plastic tarp. The ceiling sags in one corner, and the beige carpet is stained black with something that looks and smells suspiciously like mold. 

He sighs, closing the door behind him. The other room is right next to the master bedroom, the double bed on the other side of the wall from the bed where James will be sleeping. Less ideal—but it’s fine. When he opens the door, he finds that the bed is covered in another goddamn tarp. The window is held together with, like, _tape_ and plastic sheeting, and the vents are completely closed off. It’s hotter than their fucking apartment in here. 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” He kicks the bedpost and yelps. He wonders if it’s too late to figure out how to drive James’ car and just go back to the city so he can at least masturbate in peace. 

“You okay there, buddy?”

Quentin groans. “I’m—I’m fine. I’m just. Uh.” He backs out of the room, the strap of his overnight bag getting caught on the door handle. “ _Shit_.” He nearly collapses in the door frame, half held up by the strap of his bag, and somehow trapped, half-up and half-down.

He hears James in the hall, all muscle and grace. Even his footsteps sound more competent than Quentin’s. There’s an all-too-gentle hand on his elbow, and he pushes up against it, standing and looking, sheepish, into James’ placid eyes. It occurs to him for the thirty-seventh time that day that James has no idea how Quentin has been objectifying him and obsessively fantasizing about what he might look like naked. 

“Oh— _oh shit_. This must be what they’re redoing. They said something about the bunks.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Quentin is frantic. There’s an oversized leather chair and two loveseats in the living room. He’s going to have to fucking—Uber back to Manhattan. Sleep on the floor. 

“Bunks are out, too?” A look crosses over James’ face—a very quick shift of his features—replaced with that movie-hero grin.

“Uh, yeah. There’s mold. I think.” Quentin groans. “We should just go back—”

James snorts. “Or you can act like a normal human for once and bunk with me.”

“Um.” Quentin is blushing _wildly_. He hopes it’s too dark for James to see. “Uh.”

“Don’t be weird, Coldwater. Come the fuck on. It’s king size. I won’t even like, look at you.”

 _That’s part of the problem_ , Quentin thinks. But he grumbles, face burning. “I can sleep on the floor.” 

James rolls his eyes and hoists Quentin’s bag like it’s nothing, and of course it’s loaded down with five of his philosophy textbooks and _Red Rising_ and at least three other novels and—he does have a _sex toy_ in there, one that’s pretty heavy; thank fuck it’s not the vibrating kind. With Quentin’s luck, it would absolutely start buzzing, and James would give him that sweet, confused golden retriever look and rummage through his bag only to find a giant vibrating buttplug. _Gosh, Quentin, what would you need this for?_

He imagines James dropping his bag on the floor of his parents bedroom and watching in horror as his ten-inch premium silicone dildo falls out of his bag. Along with the massive bottle of lube and his other _supplies._ Quentin shudders. He shouldn’t have brought it. It should have stayed at home, in his _drawer_ , where it should _always live_ when it wasn’t, like, actively in use.

“And they just updated the shower—like all stone walls and rainwater showerhead and stuff.” 

“Yeah?” That’s probably where he’ll end up jerking off. Because he absolutely is _not_ hopping into bed next to James without taking care of himself. “I might. Uh. Hop in the shower before bed.”

“Cool. I’ll put your bag down on the luggage rack.”

“Oh. No. I’ll—I’ll take it.” He crosses his arms and looks longingly at his bag, which is still cradled under James’ arm.

“This bag is full of books. You don’t need them in the bathroom.”

“My… toiletry bag is in there.”

“Okay,” James tries again, slowing his speech down like he’s talking to a toddler, “I’ll put your bag down, and you can get your toiletries.”

“Yeah, um. That makes sense.” Quentin is a little drunk and a lot horny and _very fucking nervous_ , and he really wants his dildo, but he can’t disappear into the master bath holding his purple tie-dye dick. He brushes his hair back from his face, forgetting that he has a bun holding it back, so he looks like a fucking weirdo brushing like two strands of hair behind his ear. James is giving him a look that he can’t quite read, his eyes flicking down to Quentin’s lips for a fraction of a second before shrugging and putting down Quentin’s bag.

Quentin grabs his toiletries like a maniac, making sure to zip up his ratty camping bag before speewalking into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him, his chest heaving, waves of like—arousal and panic—pouring through him in equal measure. His dick is, in fact, already half-hard; blood rushes in his ears and he sinks down to the floor for a moment. 

He spent most of the day fantasizing alternately about riding James’ dick and fucking James with those long, thick legs wrapped around him—because— _because_ —he’s an absolute disaster and doesn’t even know if he’s a top or a bottom or if that’s even a thing he’s _supposed to decide_. He’s only ever done it the one way, and he liked it _a lot_. But—there’s so much he hasn’t done, and he wants to _do it all_. And why is he even thinking about this? He’s just _sleeping in a bed_ with James. That’s literally _all he’s doing_. And it’s not because James is like— _wanting_ to sleep in a bed with Quentin. It’s because there’s black mold in the bedrooms, and his parents are renovating. 

This is fine. It’s all _fine._

He turns on the shower, the water splattering all over his t-shirt and jeans. Groaning, he steps back and sighs, scrubbing at his face and throwing his clothes down in a heap. The shower had a nice little seat in it, just outside of the shower spray. Quentin grabs a little bottle of almond oil from his bag, coating his cock and giving himself a few experimental strokes to see if this mission could be accomplished under the circumstances—somewhat drunk, completely rattled. 

He sighs as he begins to thicken up, and he runs his fingers along the underside, up to the head of his cock, running his thumb over it and shivering at the sharp bolt of arousal shocking through him. He thinks about pushing James against the wall of the shower, opening him roughly with his fingers and _sinking_ inside, filling him up with pulsing waves of come. He bites down on a moan as he starts to stroke himself rhythmically, coming hard, toes curling, in less than a minute. 

When he walks out of the shower, hair damp, he sees James’ eyes open in the dark. “Good shower?”

“Um. Yep.” 

He shimmies into his boxers—very fucking awkwardly, beneath the towel he has wrapped around him—and crawls into the bed, placing his body as far away as possible from James.

~~***~~

_“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. There was only one bed?”_

_“There was only one bed.”_

_“And you jerked off in the shower while he was ten feet away on the other side of the wall?”_

_“I absolutely did. No regrets.”_

_“He definitely knew what you were doing.”_

_Quentin shrugs. “Fucking—probably. I’m not subtle.”_

_“And you had almond oil in your bag?”_

_“It’s great for jerking off, and it smells nice.”_

_Eliot’s body shakes in laughter, and he trails kisses over Quentin’s jawline. “You’re so fucking cute.”_

~~***~~

James looks golden in the sun, _shirtless_ , effortlessly steering the boat and anchoring it in a semi-shaded spot where they can hop out and swim. Shirtless—again—with his slightly too small swim trunks. He turns to Quentin with a smile after the anchor drops and the boat rocks _just_ a little. “You seeing anyone right now, Q?”

“I mean, uh.” Quentin clears his throat and takes a sip of the orange juice-vodka mix that James put in his assigned Nalgene bottle. James had put a piece of masking tape on it that morning, writing a squiggly ‘Q’ on it. His cheeks are pink; he thinks he’s very likely sunburned. He doesn’t do well in the sun, and he’s doing less well with James’ eyes on him. “I mean like—I’m not like dating _anyone._ Why do you ask?”

“My friend Courtney thought you were cute. She asked if you were single. I said I thought so.” All six feet of James is now draped across the seats on the Bryant family pontoon boat. The hair on his legs is pleasantly golden even though everywhere else, it’s darker. He was blond as a teen when Quentin met him; only his leg hair hadn’t gotten the memo that the rest of him had grown up and moved on.

“Oh. Cool. No, I’m not. Seeing anyone. You would know. I mean. We live in the same place.”

“You’re always out or in your room. I don’t know what you’re doing half the time.”

“Oh.” Quentin considers this. He’s been on a few Tinder dates since that became a thing people did, hooked up with few guys from Grindr who _weirdly_ thought he was cute, had actual sex with one of them who—well, he’d looked like James, except less hot. “I mean, I’ve gone on _dates_.” He shrugs. “Just not anyone in particular.”

“Meet up with any guys?”

Quentin jumps up and nearly stumbles over their cooler, opening it and making a show of grabbing a seltzer water. He coughs and nearly falls backward off the side of the boat. “I’m um. Like—yeah? I mean a few guys. Like five or six in the past _year_. I’m not, like, exceptionally active. In the dating world.”

James is turned toward him, but Quentin only sees himself reflected in his sunglasses. He can’t tell what kind of expression James is actually wearing, if he’s squicked out or curious or—well. He wouldn’t be anything else, would he? A bolt of bright desire, the thing he’s been carrying for _years_ , swoops through his gut, a charge through his cock. 

He thinks of jerking off last night, how strange and _good_ it felt to crawl into bed next to James, to watch him sleep. Pretend, as he fell asleep, that James had fucked him into oblivion, that he’d come, clenching down on his cock. He’ll have to _sneak off_ to the bathroom again today. James has been practically on top of him, and they’re sharing a bed now. All fucking day, Quentin has been relentlessly fantasizing about riding James’ cock, licking up his come, fucking into his throat. He should—he’s going to _need_ to jerk off real fucking soon, or he might _die_ from agitating his own dick with an assault of James-related sex images.

“Anyone you like?”

“Uh—what?” Quentin tugs at the hem of his shirt and drinks some of the seltzer, icy droplets of water dripping down over his fingers as he drinks. 

“You meet any guys you _like_? Or is it just… sex?” Quentin’s whole body jolts when he hears James say _sex_ like he’s thirteen and he’s watching a health video about _intercourse_ in bio class. That’s how James makes him feel. Like he’s a hapless, awkward teen with a crush on the football—no, _lacrosse_ —team captain.

“Oh.” Quentin takes another sip of seltzer, watches a speedboat pass, others following. “I mean. No one I _like_. It’s just—” How does he sound _cool_ about this? He gets together with a guy at a bar, they hit it off, or they don’t. And then they—well, either way, Quentin usually ends up with a hand job at least. And more if they’re both into it. “It’s—you’re right—it’s usually just sex.”

James moves his long body, muscles in his chest and abs contracting as he puts down his vodka and reaches over to grab for the cooler. At that moment another boat passes, perilously close, sending parabolic waves cascading toward him. Quentin can see it unfolding in slow motion. James loses his balance and Quentin falters, spilling his drink and reaching out to grab for something, but there’s nothing there until his hand meets James’ outstretched arm. He falls to the floor of the boat, his shirt rucked up, and James falls atop him, knees pressed between Quentin’s legs, strong, chiseled body, hot and golden-haired, meeting Quentin’s bare stomach. 

“Um—um—I’m sorry—” Quentin squeaks, even though James is the one on top of him. 

James graces him with that white-toothed, all-American football smile. “You’re fine.” He cups Quentin’s face for an awkward moment before moving a hand to his shoulder and shaking it. “No worries, man.”

Quentin pants wetly, his back soaked with seltzer water, and James pulls him up, gripping his wrist for long seconds after they stand. 

“I’m all wet,” Quentin says when James drops his hand, still standing _far too close_. So close that Quentin can smell the coconut of James’ sunscreen, the faint tropical tang of his shampoo, and beneath it—fresh sweat, musky and sharp. 

James rolls his eyes. “Take your shirt off.”

“I burn easily. We should go back.”

“Bullshit. I’ll spray you down.”

Quentin’s mind immediately goes to a place he’s certain James didn’t intend. “Oh. Sunscreen. Yeah. I’m—uh. Yeah, okay. I guess that’s better than—going back, like it’s not like. We’ve got anything to do. Other than. Be out here? But I could work ahead in my philosophy seminar—”

James is already reaching for the sunscreen, and somehow, Quentin manages to take his shirt off. He might be imagining it, but it looks like James is raking his eyes over Quentin’s body. He can’t really tell behind the sunglasses. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it? After James sprays him with the sunscreen, he rubs it in with his cool, strong fingers.

They stay out on the water until the sun begins to descend behind the trees, and Quentin can still feel his phantom touch long after they head back to shore.

~~***~~

_“He tenderly touched your face after fishing for information on guys you’ve fucked?”_

_“Yeah, in retrospect, I’m really fucking stupid.”_

_“You know when we went to go find those books in Manhattan?”_

_“Uh—yeah. We ran into Julia. That was—fucking awkward.”_

_“I was trying to soothe your way into my bed when we got home.” He drags a finger over Quentin’s arm, goosebumps rising in its wake. “What would you have done if I’d kissed you?”_

_“I would have been really goddamn surprised I was actually on your radar.”_

_“I dropped every fucking hint, Q.”_

_“I’m pretty oblivious. To be fair—that whole thing was a ridiculously weird idea for a date.”_

_“I thought you’d find it… grandly exciting. That you’d swoon into my lap upon arriving back at The Cottage. But alas—”_

_“I mean, I absolutely would have, you know, reciprocated. I just had—literally no idea.”_

_“I call bullshit on that, too. I just think you liked the attention.”_

_“Fuck off.”_

~~***~~

Quentin thinks that James might actually be trying to murder him. James changes from his swim trunks into shorts that are _shorter_ than basketball shorts when they get back, neglecting a shirt _entirely_. His thighs are _thick_ and the hair there is golden, too; Quentin wonders what it would feel like to bite them, rub his face all over them, mark him up with his stubble. 

When Quentin slinks back to _their room_ and dons his Fillory and Further Fun Run shirt, James tells Quentin—and Quentin thinks he must be pretty drunk by this point, drunk enough he’s glad James is no longer steering the boat—that he looks _cute_. And then he slaps him on the back and tells him he’s a _dork_ , and proceeds to heat up the grill, where he barbecues perfectly marinated chicken as Quentin sits and watches, useless. The muscles in James’ back dance beneath his sun-kissed skin. Quentin is absolutely going to get off to the concept of James’ back as a whole later. He has _thoughts_ about seeing it moving beneath his hands. 

“You hungry, Coldwater?”

Quentin’s mouth is hanging open when James turns, with an already prepped plate of chicken breast. He hands it to Quentin and tops off his vodka tonic. None of the aforementioned attentions are making Quentin any _less_ horny, and seeing _this_ side of James includes his _abs_ and intense blue eyes that crinkle up when he smiles.

“What, no love for the chef? Gotta have your protein.”

 _Protein_.

“Oh, um.” The spicy-rich scent of the barbecue fills his senses; behind James the sun is setting, orange light washing over his broad shoulders, highlighting the gold in his hair. “Yeah. I mean. _Fuck_. This looks incredible. I didn’t even know you got chicken.”

“I’m a man of many talents.” He gestures to himself. “You should be thankful you’re here with me, else you’d just be living on Digiorno’s.”

Quentin bites the inside of his cheek. He has a few ways he’d like to thank the chef, but he keeps them to himself. He wonders if he’s staring, like, obviously at James, but they’ve both been drinking all day and it doesn’t really _matter._ James doesn’t seem to give a fuck. A little zing goes through Quentin at the thought, and he shifts in the Adirondack chair. “Uh—thank you. For taking care of me. I don’t have, like, a ton to offer.”

“You’re good company, man. Keeping my mind off of, you know.” He shrugs. Quentin knows. It’s always _something_ with James and Julia. They break up, they get back together again, each time citing some bullshit reason for the split and the reconciliation. Quentin’s at the point where he just thinks it’s habit, and he’s pretty sure the both of them should give it the fuck up. Not that either of them would give him the time of day, like, sexually speaking. He’s just tired of the cycle.

“Any time. That’s literally the only thing I’m good for. You know, company.”

James quirks his head at that but doesn’t say anything else.

~~***~~

_“He made you dinner?”_

_“Yeah. In hindsight… maybe that was a prelude.”_

_“Tried and true seduction technique. Barbecue chicken and vodka. Pointed mention of protein—”_

_“Yeah, he’s not super smooth. But.” Quentin shrugs. “I was into it.”_

_Eliot’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t respond to any of my techniques.”_

_“Ultimately, you know, I was the one who had to kiss_ you _.”_

~~***~~

Quentin is light and floaty and pretty stoned from the brownie he ate after dinner. He floats in the water, legs disappearing beneath him into the nighttime blackness of the lake. He’s aware, in a horny-stoned way, of his cock, a little thrumming pulse running through his veins. The sunburn on his cheeks and the tops of his arms beat in time with the erotic hum. If he was with Daniel—they’d gone away for one weekend together—they could go back to the house, and Dan could get Quentin all laid out on the bed, finger him til he came—or maybe Quentin would ask to get fucked, slide down on his cock and bounce on his dick until he’s sore. He thinks idly about doing that with James, and he shivers, kicking his feet a little in the water.

“We can go out to the island tomorrow,” James says. “Bring some towels, set up for the day. Good fishing over there.”

“I don’t fish,” Quentin says. “I get too bored—fishing is boring.”

“You can bring one of the twenty-seven philosophy books you brought with you. Work on your thesis or whatever. Watch me fish.”

“Fine,” he says. Because he _does_ like watching James fish. He’s done it a lot, observing the small movements of his body. Usually, his brain pings between James and Julia, but it’s _just fine_ to objectify James all by himself. He can imagine the things he wants to imagine, lie on his stomach and occasionally will himself not to get too turned on. It is, on the whole, better than being in sweltering Manhattan.

“I know you like watching me fish,” James says, the barest hint of humor in his words. 

“Uh. I mean.” Quentin stills in the water. James’ float is about three feet from his, but it’s dark. He can’t tell if James’ expression is pitying or teasing or _repulsed_. “You’re good at it?”

“Sure I am. No one’s _good_ at fishing. It’s all luck.”

Quentin lets out a sigh. That’s a normal thing to say, so maybe things are normal here. “Yeah, well, you’re patient. I’m not very—patient.”

“Patient, yeah,” James says. “I can be _very_ patient.”

Why does that sound _dirty_? Because it really, truly fucking does. “But, yeah, so. Fishing tomorrow,” Quentin says, his voice a little high. “That’s a thing that can happen. Really anything where there’s water and—cold beverages. It’s a lot better than the apartment. Jules might be pissed we’re not watering her plants. Does she know we’re here?” 

Quentin kicks through the water and maneuvers himself over to the floating cooler, retrieving a can of wine. He thanks the universe that James knows he’s a wine ho. He picked up cans of wine and wine coolers for Quentin without even asking. 

After Quentin cracks open the can and pours a mouthful of Pinot Grigio straight down his throat, the lake is eerily silent, save for the crickets in the woods surrounding and the slow lapping of the water.

“She doesn’t. We’re not talking,” James says after a while.

“That’s rough, buddy.” Quentin doesn’t have much else to say since the only relationships he’s been in were kind of shitty. And in Quentin’s personal estimation, James and Julia’s relationship is pretty fucking shitty, too. Still, it _is_ rough. Quentin knows what it’s like to feel rejected by Julia, even if he didn’t get the relationship part of the equation.

“Yeah, man. She’s—you know how she is.”

Quentin does. “It sucks.”

“Well, I get to have my guys’ week with you.” James adjusts in his float, rocking Quentin a little as he paddles closer, close enough that his toes brush against Quentin’s calf in the water. “S’good. I never get to hang out with _just you_.” James puts an easy hand on Quentin’s arm. Quentin’s brain goes blank for a moment, warmth blossoming inside him.

“You see _just me_ all the time,” Quentin says, wondering if he should move _away_ from James’ touch. He doesn’t _want to_. He wants to—suck on James’ tongue, get a hand on his dick, fondle his balls. He doesn’t even— _balls_ are like, _neutral_ , as a whole. And—why is _James so close to him?_

“Not like this. Not just the two of us—not for a long time. You’re easy to be around.”

Quentin snorts, hoping James can’t hear the wild pounding of his heart. “Uh, I’ve—I’ve—like, _never_ heard that before. I have it on good, uh, authority that I’m pretty fucking high maintenance.”

“You’re a good friend.” His thumb brushes over Quentin’s forearm, sending a white-hot bolt through his core.

“Thanks,” Quentin says. His throat is sore when he forces out the word. James is so close, and their feet are touching beneath the water, and his hand is still on his arm, and his dick is getting _hard_. “We should probably. It’s like one in the morning.” Quentin coughs and ducks out of the inner tube, filling his wine can with lake water and nearly drowning himself when he tries to swim for shore. 

“Oh, okay!” James is shouting behind him, following him up to the house from the edge of the lake. Quentin doesn’t look back. Instead, he hightails it to their room, brushes his teeth, and throws on an old t-shirt and a pair of boxers, sliding into bed and pulling the covers up to his neck. 

James isn’t far behind him, but because he’s not a freak of nature, he takes his time putting back their cooler. He fiddles around with his phone under the air conditioning vent, his nipples crinkling up, rosy in the low light of the room. The cool air plays through his hair, and he _smiles_ , big and bright, at Quentin.

Quentin feels the lingering hint of James’ touch on his skin, the phantom sound of water lapping against him. James laughs, low and rich, when he falls into bed. He rolls over so he’s not only facing Quentin, but he’s also less than a foot away. “I mean, I feel like I could have stayed out on the water longer,” James says. “I’m having fun.”

Quentin smiles a little. “Yeah ‘s’nice to be here, just me and you. So. Um. Good night.”

“Night.” James’ eyes are still open in the dark, and he shifts just a _little_ closer to Quentin. “You’re a great listener.”

What happens next is—like— _like_ —an out of body experience. It’s like he’s floating on the ceiling, watching what's happening and thinking that this is a funny dream version of his life because things like this _don’t happen_ to Quentin. But James is cupping his cheek, rubbing a thumb over Quentin’s lip and moving in closer. 

“And you have the nicest mouth. I’ve been thinking about it all day.” And James is _kissing him_ , one hand on his cheek and the other lifting Quentin’s shirt and resting, tentatively against his abdomen. James makes a soft, _needy_ noise and pushes his tongue past the barrier of Quentin’s lips. 

Quentin is responding to him, tongue glancing against his, and then he’s like, coming to himself again, pulling away. “What are you—what are we doing?”

“I’m kissing you,” James says. He pushes his nose against Quentin’s cheek, sending a thrill through the filamented network of his nervous system, lighting up like sun shining through leaves, heat and energy and _life_ coursing through him. A soft moan escapes Quentin’s lips, and James chuckles, throaty and low. “Fuck, you’re _cute_.”

His cock is stiffening up, pressing, hot and needy, against the fabric of his stupid plaid boxers. The day was weirdly intense, and he hadn’t gotten any time alone to get off so he’s going to have an embarrassing situation soon. And James is attacking his mouth again, pressing his tongue between Quentin’s lips, hungry, moving a knee between his legs, close enough that his bare abdomen brushes against Quentin’s cock. 

Quentin sighs into James’ mouth, which encourages James to kiss him harder. And he’s good—he’s _so good._ Biting and licking at his lower lip, threading his fingers through Quentin’s hair, gently brushing it to the side, kissing along his jaw, licking at the tender flesh behind his ear.

“James—I—” he mumbles between kisses. And he stops because he can’t remember what he was going to say—James’ lips are locked against his neck, _sucking_.

“Hmm, you smell good,” James says, lips moving against Quentin’s bruised flesh. “Is that weird?” He laughs, a little _thrilled_ or something akin to it. 

“Um.” It _is_ weird. Holy shit, it’s so fucking weird. “James?”

“You okay? Is this okay? Shit—I’m sorry.” James pulled away—his blue eyes so big, shining in the moonlight spilling over the bed. “I can totally stop—if you’re not into this.”

“I’m um. Like pretty obviously into this—I. Are _you_? Into this?” His heart is pounding, blood rushing in his ears. 

“Yeah? Like. Yeah. A lot.” James says it so simply like it’s just _easy_ to say he wants this. That he wants Quentin. Like it’s _simple_? 

“Oh.” Quentin knits his eyebrows. James’ hand is still buried in his hair, the spots of contact sending tingles down the length of his spine. He’s not drunk, really, pretty stoned, but not enough so that he’s like out of his gourd. He’s not hallucinating. James is— _real_. “Um. Okay. I just—maybe we should talk about—uh—like.” Quentin bites down hard on his lip, blood rushing to his cheeks. 

James is laughing and kisses him again. “Don’t get all _Quentin_ on me. This is supposed to be fun. I just wanna have some fun with you. And you’re so fucking cute—”

Quentin squeaks, his body going rigid, relaxing slowly as James pets over his arms and down over his ribs, licking into his mouth, his teeth clacking against Quentin’s as he _opens_ his mouth, draws Quentin into him, and hitches forward, pressing the hard length of his cock, still sheathed in his boxers, against Quentin’s thigh. Quentin’s breath catches, and he lets out a startled little sound, like—he didn’t realize James would _get_ hard, not from _him_. Quentin had masturbated about it, like, a thousand times, wishing for this exact scenario. Like, maybe he’s willed this sex fantasy into existence? And honestly, he’s fine with that. His stomach swoops when he remembers—

“But—Julia—”

“—told me she doesn’t give a fuck what I do with my time. I don’t know if—” James grows still, his breath hot against Quentin’s cheek. “I don’t know if we’ll get back together. But we’re not right now. So I just wanna—blow off some steam—”

Quentin nods and James presses his lips, hot, to the hollow of Quentin’s neck, kissing him there, light and tender. “I’m—I tend to overthink things,” Quentin says.

“No shit, Q. Pretend I’m a guy you met online or whatever.”

“But you’re _not_. You’re my—one of my best friends.”

“Dude. Yeah,” James says. There’s a _smile_ in his voice, and he laughs again. Not in the way of acting like Quentin’s stupid but like he’s _pleased_. And that’s new. A buzzing, electric hum rolls through his core, through the marrow of his bones. “This has been brewing for months—”

“Um.” Quentin thinks he missed that. Somehow. “It was?”

“—so let’s enjoy it. We’ve been friends for a long time, so we’ll still be friends, right? Just friends who have an added benefits package. For the week or whatever. We don’t have to think about it.”

Quentin’s about to protest that he really, _really_ needs to think about it, but James’ hand is sweeping over his chest, his thumb swiping over Quentin’s nipple and drawing a shocked, strangled sound from his throat.

“You like that.”

“Yeah— _oh_ —oh—y-yeah—I—” He’s not sure what words are anymore, not with James’ hot, wet mouth on his skin, teeth nipping at his neck, long fingers brushing along his ribs.

James licks over his collarbone, and _down_ , where he fits his mouth over Quentin’s nipple. And Quentin closes his eyes, whiting out to a quiet shower of sparks in his mind, and James’ fingers are slipping beneath his waistband, and he vaguely hears James ask, “Is this okay?” 

Quentin feels himself nodding, saying, “Yeah,” just as James is rucking down Quentin’s boxers so they’re around his knees, wrapping those solid, sturdy fingers around his cock. “Oh _my God_ —”

“God, that feels _good_ ,” James murmurs as he strokes Quentin’s dick, smearing precome over his tip. “You’re so hard—feels— _good_.” The bed shifts beneath him, and Quentin feels the give of the mattress as James shoves his own underwear down and presses their bodies tight together. He’s suddenly aware of James’ bare cock—it feels _big_ , bigger than the other guys he’s been with—pressed against his thigh, James’ teeth on his neck and lips hot against his mouth—it’s a _rush_ , a crazy, bright high as Quentin _realizes_ he can _touch_ James, too. His palm fits neatly around the warm, petal-soft skin of James’ dick, touching and exploring as James moans and bucks into his hand, forgetting about Quentin’s pleasure and chasing his own.

“Hey, we can—” Quentin says, because he _knows_ —he’s the experienced one, so he fits their stiff cocks together and James is so _thick_ , he can’t get his hand all the way around, but he can get the friction he needs, pausing to spit in his hand and get it back around both of them. “That feel good?”

“Fuck, oh holy _shit_ , that’s incredible—why does it feel so _good_?” James’ hips are working up into Quentin’s fist, his hand gripping Quentin’s hip and he’s grunting, pushing tight against Quentin’s body. Panting, gasping, because it’s delicious and decadent and _hot_ , it feels so much _better_ than it did when he tried it before because, _God_ , James is so _gorgeous_ , and he’s so tall and clean-cut, all American, a boy Quentin shouldn’t be able to have. Quentin groans, rutting against James’ cock, his breath hitching as James speeds up, fucking into his hand. 

James cries out, _biting down_ on Quentin’s shoulder, and bucks hard, coming over their hands, coating Quentin’s dick. The sharp kick of pain zips through Quentin’s body, to his coated cock—and it’s _so good_ , the heavy wetness of James’ come on his body. He’s so close, a few strokes away. He nearly sobs with it, with the need for release, his body tensing, cock leaking.

“Oh my _God_. Holy fuck—you came all over me—” Quentin jerks himself off frantically, his cock slick and hot and needy. 

“Fuck—yeah—I _did_ ,” James says with a little laugh.

He catches James’ mouth and kisses him hard—he swears his eyes actually roll to the back of his head when the orgasm untwists in his body, tingling from the tips of his fingers to the soles of his feet, his toes twitching as he spurts in hot stripes over James’ muscled belly.

James is still kissing him, his soft hot tongue licking into Quentin’s mouth, when he comes back to himself. They’re both _covered_ in come. Quentin’s legs are shaking. 

“Oh— _goddamn_ ,” Quentin manages.

“Yeah,” James says, kissing Quentin again, bringing his hand to the back of his neck. “Got all _messy_.”

Quentin _shudders_ , another aftershock of pleasure rolling through him. “Jesus _Christ_.”

“We should shower,” James says after a while, nipping at Quentin’s lower lip. 

“Oh—uh yeah.” 

He lets James lead him to the shower and turn on the water. He hands Quentin the shampoo and soaps up a loofah while _checking him out_ unabashedly. “You have no idea that you’re hot.”

“To be fair,” Quentin says, a little unsteady, “I had no idea that you’re.” He studies James. “I don’t know, whatever you are. Not straight.”

“I mean, I’m _straight_ ,” James says, like _duh obviously, we’re just bros doing bro things like jerking each other off._

Yeah, okay, that tracks. “Listen, as your friend—I’m going to encourage you to reevaluate that position.” There’s something nice about this because with literally any other guy he could imagine, he’d be _terrified_ , like emotionally and possibly physically to like, even suggest such a thing. But he _knows_ James, so it’s _easy_. Or _easier_ , anyway. “Like you thought about—” Quentin blushes, but this is a _logic_ problem. He can say these things out loud. He’s still pretty stoned so—that really only helps. “Me. This way? Like before tonight?”

James nods. “Yeah.” He’s methodically washing himself. When he closes his eyes, Quentin sneaks a glance at his dick again, and it’s _big_. He wants it _inside him._

“And any other guys? Like—have you thought about anyone else like that?”

“A few times.” James shrugs. 

“Have you watched porn with—just guys?”

“Yeah, out of _curiosity_.”

Quentin suppresses a sigh. “Okay. So. Did you get off to it?”

“I mean, yeah.” James pauses. For an econ major at Columbia, James can be really, really dense. “Oh, _yeah_ , I can see where that’s like—not straight.”

“What would you tell your friend who got off to gay porn and—you know—with me?”

James grins. “I do know.”

“Yeah, well. What would you say?” He slaps some conditioner in his hair because Julia told him he’s supposed to do that. He rinses it out, opening his eyes to see the gears in James’ head turning.

“I’d say that sounds at least a little bit _not straight_.” 

“Just FYI, you don’t have to be like fifty/fifty to be bi.”

“That clears things up. Cool.” James steps up to him and kisses him again, his body hot and sudsy, and his hands slide over the length of his back, resting on his ass. Quentin hadn’t expected more—but he gives himself over to the kiss, sighing into James’ mouth and letting the fluid, warm feeling settle in him, his stomach flipping when James’ teeth scrape over his bottom lip. 

When Quentin feels James getting hard again, Quentin does the only _logical_ thing he can think of and drops to his knees, swallowing down James’ cock and grabbing his ass, licking over the underside, swirling his tongue and sucking gently on the head, taking it deep and opening his throat to accommodate as much as he can—he wishes he could do more, but James is making sounds like he’s in heaven, stroking Quentin’s wet hair, his legs shaking so that Quentin sort of feels like he’s holding him up with just his mouth and his hands. James comes not long after, hot and salty against Quentin’s tongue. It’s good, _so good_ , Quentin feels like he’s floating when James pulls him up and _kisses him_ —like people _do that,_ God. 

“You’ve been holding out on me, Q,” he says, laughing. “If only I’d known. God, I can _taste it_.”

Quentin’s head _swims_. “If only you’d known—what? That I like giving head? You would have gotten me to suck your dick?” Quentin starts laughing, forehead pressed to James’ shoulder. He’s stoned, yeah. Or like high from blowing his incredibly hot friend; it’s hard to tell. Both.

“Maybe—” James laughs. “Maybe I would. Like, sort of possibly.” James kisses him again, moaning, dirty, into Quentin’s mouth. “God, you’re ridiculously fucking hot.” He feels fingers wrap around his cock, James’ head against his shoulder. It’s a little fumbling and awkward, but it’s mostly _hot_ , and Quentin comes again, bucking against James’ hand.

“God—I’m glad I don’t have to worry about staring at you when you’re not wearing a shirt,” Quentin says.

“You noticed?” James gives him a little grin. Yeah—Quentin gets it now. He feels weirdly flattered to be the object of James’ dudebro plan to get some dick.

~~***~~

_Eliot is weirdly into this, pressing close to Quentin and interrupting him with a kiss. “I’d find this terribly unbelievable if you weren’t stupid hot and stupidly oblivious.”_

_“Thanks, I think.”_

_“You got to be the experienced one. Lucky boy.”_

_Quentin squirms, cheeks growing red. Something in Eliot’s tone sends a jolt right through him. Knowing, superior, coy. He’d find it insanely irritating if Eliot didn’t have him pinned against the blanket, lips traveling over his neck._

~~***~~

“How many guys have you been with?” James’ body is pressed up against his on an old beach blanket he found. The fishing rods have remained ignored.

“Like—eight, ten if you count handjobs.”

“Should I count handjobs?”

Quentin shrugs. “Maybe?”

“And did you have sex with all of them?” 

“Define sex,” Quentin says, because Quentin’s kind of an asshole. He knows what James means, but he kinda wants to make him work for it. The thought of _why_ he’s asking is indescribably hot—he’s asking because it _turns him on_. Quentin’s cock is fattening up just lying on the blanket, James’ arm around him in the shade. 

“You know. Like going _all the way_.” For a guy who jerked him off this morning under the covers, he’s awfully indirect with his terminology. 

“Uh. I had sex with two of them, then, I guess.”

“Who was—um—on top? What do you _prefer_?”

Quentin shields his eyes and looks up at the sky. It’s nearly cloudless, but there might be thunderstorms this afternoon. He has a few thoughts on what they could do together inside. He feels… weirdly not embarrassed. It’s just James. “Uh. I don’t know. I’ve only bottomed with guys.”

“Do you like it?”

“God,” Quentin says. “I really can’t believe you’re asking me this. Yeah, I like it a lot.”

“What do you like about it?”

Quentin squirms closer to James, who puts a hand to Quentin’s hip, lifting his shirt and placing his hand beneath it. The island is empty except for them, though boats pass occasionally. “I like being full. I like the pleasure it gives to the other person. I like coming with something inside me. It feels, like, really fucking good.”

He’d really like James to fuck him, but he’s not going to push it. He’s only used his hands on Quentin, and that’s fine. He thinks they’ll fool around later, and maybe he can suck James’ cock again. His mouth waters at the thought. 

James’ breath is coming a little fast. He’s so _close_ , his arm beneath Quentin’s head. “That’s sexy.”

“I mean. It’s just, like, my opinion. Of getting dick. But I can see how you might think that’s… appealing.” He furrows his brow.

“You’d try it the other way?

“Yeah, I mean. I—I can assume I’d enjoy both. You know. Extrapolation. Evidence suggests—it would be likely.”

“Yeah, likely,” James repeats. He’s looking at Quentin hungrily, which makes Quentin’s stomach _swoop_ , his heart beating fast. 

“What’re you looking at?”

“You’re just Hot.”

Quentin rolls his eyes, a corner of his mouth twitching up. “I’m really not.”

“Your dimples are cute.”

“Uh. God. Okay. Thanks?” He puts his hands to his cheeks because it feels like they’re on fire, and in a flash, James is pulling him in closer, his hand on Quentin’s ass, _squeezing_ ever so slightly.

“S’true.” Quentin’s entire body goes lax and easy when James cups the back of his head, when he presses a knee between Quentin’s legs. His hand is playing with the waistband of Quentin’s Fillory swim trunks. “Can I?”

“Y-yeah,” Quentin says, whimpering as James attacks his mouth, fucking inside with his tongue. He pulls roughly at his trunks, pushing them down over Quentin’s hips, until his cock is free, exposed to the air. The boat, anchored a short ways from the island, rocks in the water as another passes by. They’re obscured by the shadow of the boat, by the trees surrounding the little cove on the beach, but he still feels _exposed_ , and he’s _so_ hard with James’ hand wrapped around him. 

If someone were really _looking_ they could see exactly what’s going on, _exactly_ what James is doing. Stroking Quentin, rubbing his thumb over the slit, watching as precome beads up at the tip. There are people in the distance on the lake shore, people anchoring and fishing, and _holy fuck_ is that doing it for Quentin.

James finally gets a good rhythm going after some mumbled instruction from Quentin. ( _Yeah just like—oh God, right there—)_ And James is kissing his neck, sucking one of his crinkled nipples into his mouth, and going _lower_ until his breath is hot against Quentin’s dick. 

“I really wanna—I want my mouth on you, Q.”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, arching up instinctively, fingers grasping at the blanket below him as James sucks the head of his dick between his lips, swirling his tongue just over the slit, and sucking him down, his lips meeting his fingers where they’re still wrapped around his cock. 

Quentin’s not _big_ by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s kind of grateful right now, anyway because James now has _all of his dick_ in _all of his mouth_ , and it’s wet and hot and _soft_ , and somehow better than all the blowjobs he’s had, _ever_ , all put together into one big, hot blowjob. His cock head hits the back of James’ soft palette, nestles into his throat when he takes him deeper. James _coughs_ , but he redoubles his effort and Quentin _comes_ and comes and comes, his body jerking up, pleasure rolling through him like fire, like summer heat, like lightning, his cock thrusting into James’ mouth and filling it.

Later, when gray clouds roll in, they take the boat back to the house, Quentin sitting in his lap the whole way home. It’s started raining when they reach the dock, and they run uphill as the first crash of thunder rolls in.

~~***~~

_“I refuse to believe this happened.”_

_“I really don’t know what to tell you,” Quentin says. “Except that it fucking actually happened.” He’d be rolling his eyes or swatting at Eliot, but he’s very fucking distracted by Eliot’s hand splayed over his hip, Eliot’s nose pressing behind his ear._

_“East Coast boys from liberal homes, all nonchalant about fucking.”_

_“God, it’s not like you_ weren’t _seducing boys when you were twenty-two. We were adults. Like, it’s not that revolutionary to have a—a like, same-sex experience with a friend.”_

 _Eliot is laughing against his ear, sucking at Quentin’s earlobe, scraping his teeth over the skin. “Did you get your bachelor’s degree_ — _” He chuckles, soft and warm breath against Quentin’s ear. “—in s_ eduction? _”_

_“I was not the one doing the, uh, seducing.”_

_Eliot’s fingers dig into the flesh of his hip, a gesture filled with intent. “You were just a little sex kitten. He couldn’t resist.”_

_“I feel like you’re sending me, like, really mixed signals,” he says. “You don’t believe me_ and _I’m a sex kitten. That doesn’t make, like, narrative sense.”_

_“Both things are true,” Eliot says, nuzzling at his neck. His cock is half-hard against Quentin’s thigh. “For the record, I do believe you. I’m just—mmm—a little jealous. I wish I’d been a carefree boy with a mouth on your dick.”_

_“That, like, role play scenario is open to you literally any time.”_

~~***~~

Quentin is pretty stoned when James brings it up again. “You’ve never fucked another guy.”

Quentin is playing with a deck of cards, shuffling and reshuffling them, doing a fancy little trick where he makes one card disappear and reappear in the other hand. He doesn’t do it quite the way he saw it on YouTube. His way is better since the card actually looks like it _vanishes_. 

“Uh. We’ve been over this.” His dick is _already_ showing interest, even though James hasn’t exactly _asked._ He seems pretty close to it, though, and that thought makes Quentin’s whole body feel like a live wire. He wants it both ways; he’s _not picky_. And James’ ass is a work of _art_. Yeah, he’d like to get fucked, but _also_ —

“You—you wanna fuck me?” 

Yeah, now his dick has fully joined the party. He can feel himself stiffening up in his boxers—since that’s all he’s wearing, his situation is going to be real fuckin’ obvious, real soon. “Um. Like. Absolutely yes? But uh—we should. Let’s shower. For reasons.”

“Oh—why?”

“Just— _come on._ ”

They make out in the shower like teenagers, like enough that Quentin’s lips are sore with it. He guesses he’s grateful he bought the lube so they don’t have to drive out to Walgreen’s and pick up some terrible, cheap garbage. He’ll have to explain to James _why_ he has it, but he guesses “for jerking off” covers it. He’d rather not explain the dildo. 

Right now, James isn’t thinking about much of anything—instead, he’s got Quentin pressed against the wall of the shower, thrusting against Quentin’s cock and licking at his neck—and since _when_ was James so horny? And since fucking when had he liked guys? Quentin definitely _missed this_. And like—he misses just about everything, so it’s not a total surprise, but this is like, a _lot_. He’s not complaining but—it’s a _lot_ that he totally fuckign missed. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come if I keep doing that,” James mumbles. 

Quentin’s pleasantly buzzed from the wine cooler he had when they got back and the half brownie he ate at lunch. James’ hands on him feel better than _anything_ in the known world, and he’s beautiful, his dick is gorgeous and big and blush pink at the tip, and he wants Quentin _to fuck him_. He kisses James hard and pulls away, panting. “Don’t want that, do we? You wanna—” Quentin gulps. “—you wanna come while I’m fucking you.”

James _grins_. “Yeah. I’ve thought about that—like, a lot this summer.” 

“ _Fuck_. Just like—this is unbelievable—”

“Believe it,” James says. He bites his lip, looking _excited_ , and Quentin’s not sure if anyone’s ever been actually _excited_ to have sex with him. More like— _resigned_. But James is _so hard_ , and he can’t keep his hands off of Quentin even while they’re stumbling through the bathroom and Quentin is trying to towel himself off.

After they’re more or less dry, Quentin tugs James to the bed, completely without shame at this point. He’s a quivering mass of _want_ and _need_ and _yes_ , and he pulls his bottle of lube out and just _rolls his eyes_ when James laughs. “Thought you were gonna get lucky?”

“No, I thought I was gonna jerk off by myself,” he says, crawling on the bed between James’ thighs and kissing him hard, brushing a thumb over one of his pink nipples and smiling as his body jolts. He really has no idea what the fuck he’s doing, but he’s got a better idea than James. He certainly knows how to get himself opened up for his dildo, and he’s not that _big_ , so, it’s not going to be, like, complicated to get James ready. He assumes. 

“You definitely _don’t_. I’m here for you, buddy.” 

“Jesus,” Quentin laughs. “This is like—not my life.” He leans forward, catching James’ mouth in a kiss and grunts, thrusting absentmindedly, their cocks nested together. James spreads his legs and bucks up to meet him, sending sparks of pleasure traveling up his thighs, low in his hips.

“It should be. You should be _confident_.” He surges up and kisses Quentin, propped on his elbows, tongue slipping into his mouth. “Like, body positivity. That’s a thing,” he adds.

When he pulls away, Quentin is panting, his cheeks hot. James has one hand wrapped loosely around their cocks, the pressure just enough that Quentin’s thoughts are almost fuzzed out of his head. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I look pretty sure, don’t I?” 

Quentin looks down at James’ dick, which is stiff and proud and wet at the tip, and he hitches forward, gasping as their cocks slide together in James’ long, sturdy fingers. He _shivers_. “Y-yeah, you look fucking hot. Why don’t you turn over?”

“For—you’re going to—” James is _blushing_ , and it’s so fucking cute Quentin has to kiss him again.

“I’m gonna get my fingers inside you. And my tongue if you’re okay with that. You want me to do that?” Quentin feels a little like he might pass out, but he manages to pull off something resembling smooth. It doesn’t matter because they’re both turned on, and James’ eyes are dark and distant, and he’s panting. It’s like _porn_ but a lot better than _porn_ because all of Quentin’s fantasies are actually coming true. And yeah, he’s more than a little pleased that he gets to have this. At least someone wants to fuck him, _Julia_.

“Yeah, I—I think so.” James’ abs tighten and release, which makes Quentin’s cock _jerk_ with need. He’s so fucking tight and built, his body lean and strong and powerful. He helps roll James over, and he runs his hands over all those muscles and hitches his cock against James’ ass, which is _illegally_ perfect, featuring in many of Quentin’s fantasies for the past—like, five-ish years, since he figured out that his weird feelings about James had less to do with Julia and a lot more to do with James’ chest, flushed pink after a run, his ocean-blue eyes, sculpted legs. And now he’s getting to fuck his bi awakening, and that’s a thing that’s happening. Holy _fuck_. 

He’s pleasantly buzzed, his body tingling from the crown of his head to his toes, and he’s got a handful of James’ ass. Really fucking aesthetically pleasing—that’s what James is—and he’s pink and tight here, his entire body shuddering when Quentin brushes a finger over his hole. And it’s—it’s _nice_ that James doesn’t even know enough to slot Quentin into some kind of role, that he doesn’t think he’s, like, exclusively a bottom because he looked at him and sized him up. He didn’t fit him in some neat category because he’s short and soft spoken and mildly spaced out a lot of the time and maybe a little passive— _maybe_. Okay. Yeah, _certainly_.

To James, Quentin’s demeanor or personality doesn’t mean he’s a top or a bottom or anything in particular—like Daniel or Peyton just _assumed_. And yeah, Quentin goes along with _whatever_ because sex is sex, and he’s just glad he gets to have it whenever it falls into his lap. So he doesn’t do a whole lot of pushing around or asking complicated questions. 

So, fuck. This is _nice_. It’s nice to be asked for something different, to give it.

He dives down and bites James’ ass, just a playful nip, which—charmingly—elicits a surprised little sound from James and a rocking motion, pressing back against Quentin. 

“You are so fucking sexy,” Quentin murmurs, shameless at this point, before spreading James’ ass and licking over the tight rim of his hole, slow at first, and then, deeper, _pressing_ in soft but sure, working a little ways inside and reaching between his legs to touch his cock, hard and heavy and _big_ between his legs. He grunts, licking and kissing around his hole, feeling James _relax_ , get all soft and wet and open. He’s never done _this_ before, but he’s seen it in porn and jerked off about it a thousand times and _researched_ it online, and it’s _good_ and _dirty_ , feeling the flutter and give of his tight little hole, tasting his skin and groaning as he licks in deeper and opens him _more_. Wordless sounds come from James as his hips rock back, as Quentin runs his fingers reverently over James’ dick and licks him until he’s sobbing. 

Quentin is panting when he pulls back, his cock _aching_. James’ hole is wet, the muscle tensing and releasing, the skin around the tiniest bit red from Quentin’s stubble. Just seeing it makes Quentin _know_ he’s not going to last once he gets inside, but fuck, he’s _definitely_ up for trying. 

“It’s gonna feel so good, I promise—I’ll make you feel good,” Quentin murmurs, a little hesitant as he squirts a palmful of lube into his hand. “I’ll make sure that you’re—open and ready. This stuff is _nice_ ; it’s thick and—it feels really good.” 

James is nodding, pushing back as soon as Quentin’s fingers press to his hole. He works one finger inside with ease, and it’s _hot_ , and _tight_ , and oh _fuck_ , he’s soft and silky inside, clenching around his finger. Pulling back, he patiently works in another finger until James is almost fucking back onto his hand, panting and—yep, James has definitely had something in his ass before. He doesn’t need to know specifics, like, right now. His fingers or a toy, but—something’s been in there. He sort of knows what he’s doing when he relaxes around Quentin’s fingers _._ “That okay?”

“Yeah,” James says, shivering, “God, yeah. I’m ready—”

“I think we’ll go for three before we call it a day,” Quentin says, low and rough. He hums appreciatively when he slips a third finger inside and feels James clench tight around him. 

“Oh my _God_ ,” James breathes, panting and pushing back. Yeah, he _really_ likes this, and he’s relaxing nice and easy as Quentin fingers him, gently twisting his wrist and watching the muscles above James’ tailbone twitch He pushes inside, coaxes James’ muscles loose. He wants to _fuck_ , to feel James’ ass bounce against his cock. Watch himself disappear inside. He’s doing what he needs to do; getting him _ready_. 

“You’re doing so good.” Quentin’s voice cracks a little at the end. His cheeks are blazing, his stomach flipping. “God, I want it—you want my—my cock inside you?”

“ _Yeah_ —I wanna feel it.”

“Fuck, I just can’t fucking believe—” He withdraws his fingers and presses the head of his cock against James’ hole, wet and slick and warm. So _slow_ , careful—he pushes the barest bit, clutching James’ hip as he slips the head of his dick _just inside_ , trembling when it’s _in_ , hot and _so snug_ around his tip. He swears he can feel James’ _pulse_ against him. “—can’t believe this is _happening_.”

“S’feels s’good,” James mumbles into the pillow. 

“I’m gonna—a little more.” He presses in deeper, James’ ass clinging, so fucking tight, around his cock. Panting, he holds himself in place, little ripples of pleasure vibrating through his thighs, through the cradle of his hips, unwinding up the column of his spine. He’s both attempting to be, like, solicitous and—trying not to fucking blow his load right away.

James’ back just _arches_ , his chest and abdomen swaying forward, down toward the covers, and he’s— _Jesus_ —he’s _pushing back_ onto Quentin’s cock, making soft, low sounds, rocking back the _tiniest_ bit, but _God,_ it’s more than enough to make a choked sound rise from Quentin’s throat, make his toes dig into the covers, hands tighten on James’ hips. 

“ _Oh_ , fuck,” James breathes, a small whisper. “Oh my _God_.” 

He rocks back again, and Quentin gasps, his whole body trembling as he slips in a little deeper. “You’re so _tight_. I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come if you don’t—stop moving.”

James stops, his breathing uneven, ragged. Quentin watches the muscles in James’ back twitch, his ribs expanding as he breathes. “Okay—yeah,” James says. “Okay. I just really want—I wanna— _feel it_.”

“I really fucking do, too. But I—just—you gotta—stay still.” He shifts, slipping back and almost _out_ , making a strangled sound and pushing back inside, sinking in deeper, thighs tingling, his fingers grasping reflexively, bound to James’ flesh. James’ ass is clinging, gripping him, and he has to pull back again and slide in at a different angle to get it _just right_. He’s crying out, a loud, disjointed sound, and when he looks down, he sees that he’s buried inside, all the way, hips flush with James’ ass. 

“Oh— _oh_.” James shivers, and Quentin can _feel it_ , can feel the warm, bright pulse of his body around him, the subtle trembling of his body. “God—you—you, I feel you _everywhere_.”

Quentin whimpers and adjusts his hands on James’ hips, sweat beading on his brow, his mouth watering and abdomen tensing as he holds himself deliberately very, very still. He’s—goosebumps and sparkling all over—going to _come_ if he moves too fast. He can feel the free fall of impending orgasm low in his hips. He was getting hard before James even got the words out, and now Quentin has eaten his ass and fingered him open, stroked his hard dick, watched as he _opened_ for Quentin, listened as he _begged_ for him. 

“You gonna move, Coldwater?” James is trying to laugh, but it ends in a cracked moan as Quentin pulls back an inch, thrusting inside.

“Fuck—I’m just adjusting—I’m just—” James is rocking forward again and shoving himself back on Quentin’s dick with a low, satisfied groan. “Jesus fucking _Christ_ , I—nnngh—”

“Come on and actually fuck me,” James says, looking over his shoulder, his hair mussed, cheeks flushed. It’s gotta be a violation of the laws of nature that James is that fucking hot. It’s impossible—Quentin thinks that he probably needs to pinch himself to check if this is _real_ , or if he’s constructed some kind of alternate reality. “Come _on_.”

Quentin’s conscious mind comes back online, and—he pulls back and thrusts inside again, letting out a long, low sound, a heady wave of arousal thrumming through him. He could stay like this forever, tucked into James, tight heat surrounding him. But James wants to actually get fucked, so Quentin needs to _focus_ and—he _does it_ , moving his hips and watching as his cock disappears inside of James, slow at first, methodical.

“How’s that?” He forces the words out, forces them out because he can’t fucking think—in all of his goddamn life, he’s never felt anything _this good_ , the silky-soft clutching fit of his body, the drag of his cock inside as moves.

“ _Harder_.”

“I’ll see—” Quentin moves his knees so he’s at a better angle, driving into James—definitely _harder_ , biting his lip and trying to capture the right rhythm. “—what I can do—mmn—”

James makes breathy little “uh” sounds with each thrust, impossibly hot, a light sheen of salty sweat glistening on the long lines of his back, the muscles in his shoulders tensing and releasing as he starts moving in time with Quentin, fucking back on his dick as Quentin slides into him. He lets out a low keening sound, keeping his rhythm steady. “Oh _fuck_ —feels so full—I’m _close_ —Q—”

And, oh _fuck_ is right—Quentin speeds up, right at the edge himself, filling him up, fucking into that tight, wet heat and bending his body so he can get James’ dick in his hand. 

“Wanna feel you come on my cock,” Quentin says, which is like a sexy thing he never thought he would say, but here he is, saying it and meaning it and slamming into James, grunting, balls drawn up tight and cock _aching_ , need building tight and low in his hips, the filthy wet sound of their fucking reverberating in his ears. He _really_ doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he somehow manages to get a hand around James’ dick and keeps fucking into him. It takes maybe ten good strokes, and James cries out, spilling warmth over Quentin’s hand, over the bed, his whole body tensing up, clenching down hard on Quentin’s dick and sending a sparking jolt through the whole of his body, a wave of sparks up the length of his back. 

“Oh _holy shit_.” James lets out a sob as his cock spurts a final time, his body twitching, toes curling next to Quentin’s knees. Quentin can feel the tensing and tightening around his cock, the twitches of James’ muscles, hot and close around him. He draws to a halt just _feeling it_ and gasping, his nipples tight, cock radiating pleasure. He needs to chase his own release, and he’s spurred into action. Groaning with every thrust, Quentin fucks hard and fast, so _close_ , driving into James, teetering on the edge before tensing up and shoving himself all the way inside, hips stuttering and jerking as his cock pulses, filling him with come. 

Quentin’s mouth falls into an ‘O,’ a breathy, strangled sound coming from his throat. He pants, back arched, pulsing thrills running through the meat of his thighs, straight through the core of him, endless. It seems to go on and on, the unspooling, heavy weight of his pleasure, the reflexive little thrusts and tensing of his hips, the tingling from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. His breathing finally slows, his body jerking a final time.

James collapses on the bed, pulling Quentin down with him. He pulls out with a gasp—he came _so_ much, and he can _see it_ , wetness between James’ legs. When he flops back on the bed, he’s, like, _covered_ in come, which should be a little gross, but it’s just _hot_. Because Quentin _did that_. Quentin was the one who got him there. 

For a while, they’re just quiet, Quentin’s ear pressed to James’ chest, resting. They smell like sex and faintly of sunscreen that didn’t wash all the way off; James’ arm is warm around his shoulders, his thumb making lazy circles on Quentin’s arm. He’s _sated_ in a way that he doesn’t remember often feeling, and maybe he’s never felt quite like _this._ He’s never had sex like _this_. Usually sex is a thing that happens to him, and he’s just… along for the ride. This was like, _wow_. 

He kinda gets the hype. Like, he’d always enjoyed sex, wanted to have as much of it as he could. But this was something beyond. Maybe it was just James being James, and he was _easy_ to be around when he wasn’t relentlessly teasing Quentin with his bare chest. Quentin quirks his head to the side and turns to James.

“Were you parading around the apartment half naked like, _hoping_ I’d notice you?”

“I knew you noticed me, Coldwater. I was hoping you’d _do something about it_.”

“Well. I _did_.”

“You needed some very explicit encouragement.” James laughs, and Quentin feels the vibration in his ear. “Some handholding. I thought I was the inexperienced one in this—”

“Hey, _look_. I’m not—great with reading signs. You’ve been with Julia for like— _God_ —four years?”

“Four and a half years,” James says, his voice wavering a little. 

“Uh yeah,” Quentin says, cringing at his stupid fucking mouth. “I didn’t mean to bring it up—I just meant that, yeah. I—”

“No, I get it,” James says. They’re both quiet after that. There’s a lot to say—like—Quentin doesn’t know what this _means_. He doesn’t think it’s the beginning of a _relationship_ , not that he wouldn’t want that. Quentin wants a relationship with just about everyone he likes, and he’s long since learned that whole line of thinking has never done him any good. That knowledge hasn’t _lessened_ any of the personal drama Quentin creates for himself, but he can keep this, at least, drama-free. So he doesn’t add anything _needless_. If he starts rambling right now, he’s not going to stop. And then James will be the one planning to sleep on the floor.

“We’re filthy,” Quentin says after a while. He kinda likes it, but they ought to clean up and eat, and maybe, after that, they can watch another movie or go for another swim and things will continue to be uncomplicated and _not weird—_ God, please. “You—uh, wanna shower again quick?”

James just nods. 

When they’re in the shower later, James looks at him through wet lashes. “I can do you tomorrow if you want.”

Quentin’s cheeks go slapped-red, hot, and blood rushes in his ears. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll fuck you. If you walk me through it.”

 _Jesus_. 

“Um. Yeah. I’m—that sounds— _great._ ” Quentin washes himself absently, staring somewhere above James’ head because he might be losing his mind—he keeps expecting this thing to start cooling down, but James seems to be in _might as well try it all at least once_ bisexual exploration mode. And he’s not powering down. Which is more than okay by Quentin; he just doesn’t know what to _fucking say._

“Turn your brain off,” James says. “It has no place at the lake house.”

~~***~~

_“Baby’s first time topping.” Eliot’s cock presses, half-hard, against Quentin’s thigh. Warmth fizzes in his belly and spreads down low between his legs. He has both of Quentin’s wrists pressed against the tiles with one broad hand._

_“Yeah. I like to think it was a success.”_

_“Little Q—”_

_“Stop.”_

_“—being the big man, teaching the straight boy how to—”_

_“Oh my God.” Quentin buries his face against Eliot’s neck._

_“—take your cock.”_

_“Don’t tease me. You’re the perv who wanted to know all the details.”_

_“I’m still the perv who wanted to know all the details. And teasing you is my hobby.”_

_“I don’t know why I put up with you.”_

_“Because the dick is just that good.” Eliot traces his fingers down one arm, kissing the edge of his shoulder, peppering kisses along the line of his collarbone, his tongue darting out and sending searing heat down to Quentin’s marrow._

_Quentin rolls his eyes. “Sure, that’s one reason. Let’s go with that.”_

_“So. The thrilling conclusion to the story?”_

_Quentin clears his throat. “Fine. Just let go of my hands. It’s fucking distracting.”_

_“You like it.”_

_“Yeah but. Like. Do it after I’m done with the story, okay?”_

_Eliot begrudgingly lets go._

~~***~~

James is strangely nervous that next morning, antsy through breakfast and swimming, fidgeting with his phone’s waterproof case and nearly dropping it in the water, accidentally cutting himself on a tab of one of the beers, eating half a sandwich and putting the rest away. He’s acting like _Quentin_ , which is very much not how James acts. Quentin doesn’t _say_ anything until he can’t really hold out any longer because James is making him fucking nervous, _too_.

When they sit down on the sofa together after lunch, he nudges James with his elbow. “We don’t have to—if you don’t want to.”

He flicks his eyes over to Quentin, looking back at the TV before he speaks. “I do want to. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.” He scrubs at his face and sighs, his breath the slightest bit shaky. “I want to make it good. You made it good.”

“I have, like, very limited experience—”

“That’s not exactly true. You’re the ho in this scenario.”

“ _Hey_.” Quentin laughs because—okay, maybe. Like in a comparative sense. When he looks at a guy who’s probably been sleeping with _only_ the same person for like, a hundred years. He’s, like, maybe a little bit of a ho.

“No, I mean. You know this stuff a lot better than I do. And I really, _really_ want to. I’m just worried I’ll fuck it up.”

“That’s cute—I think as much as I want this, there’s no way you’re going to fuck it up.”

James smiles. “I appreciate the vote of confidence.”

 _An idea_. Quentin sips at one of his strawberry wine coolers, considering. “How about I ride you, and I’ll help you get me ready?” 

James’ cheeks are beautifully pink when Quentin looks at him. He hasn’t bothered to put on a shirt at all today, and God, his body is so _nice_. Quentin wants his hands on James’ chest, wants to feel James’ cock sliding against his. They’ve got like, one more day and another night here and Quentin wants to fuck him again, wants to suck his dick on the boat, _wants, wants, wants_. Any version of James putting his dick in him will be fucking incredible, he feels absolutely certain. 

“That sounds,” James starts, clearing his throat, “ _hot._ You like doing it that way?” James is biting his lip and looking adorably kind of anxious. When he shifts on the couch, Quentin can see the outline of his cock in the silky nylon fabric of his gray shorts. 

“I really fucking do. You liked—how it felt? When I fucked you?”

James nods slowly. “Yeah. More than I thought. And I’d thought about it a lot.”

“I’ve thought—” Quentin takes another sip of wine, and then another, bigger sip. “—um, I’ve thought about _you_ a lot. So I can pretty much guarantee that I’ll be—fucking _thrilled_. I love getting fucked.” 

“Yeah? You want to—like right now, maybe?”

Quentin grins, his whole body tingling, tension building in the base of his spine. “I definitely do.”

James starts to get up, but Quentin raises a hand. “We can do it in here. I want you to be sitting up. I wanna see your face and—I just like it a lot that way. That’s the way I imagined it with you.” 

“Oh— _yeah_. That sounds. Good.” James looks down and to the side, like he’s _shy_. 

“Okay—I’ll get _stuff_. You, uh. Hold on tight.”

When Quentin returns with the lube, he strips, throwing off his clothes—because who gives a fuck anymore? He’s been inside James, so he’s lost the ability to give any fucks about his body image. Anyway, James seems to fucking like it. He’s already half hard under James’ gaze. He feels a little bit like some kind of sex-expert, a _sexpert_ , even though he knows that’s not objectively, like, true at all. But James is sweet and lovely and kinda makes him feel like that. He’ll be back with Julia in a few days, more than likely, so no time like the present. 

James is palming his cock, just watching Quentin, who starts stroking his own cock, getting himself hard. “You look so good,” James murmurs. 

“You should—take off your shorts,” Quentin says, swallowing hard. “I wanna see you—and I wanna get on your lap.”

James slips off his shorts, and his cock springs free, stiffening up all the way as he starts moving his hand, grunting on every other stroke. “You like it this way?”

“I like being held,” Quentin says, a little embarrassed at having said it. But James’ eyes are dark and hot, and he beckons for Quentin, and Quentin is sitting on his lap, fisting their two cocks together and making a high pitched noise. James kisses him, rough and hard, his tongue slipping into Quentin’s mouth and his hands going to Quentin’s ass. 

“You’ve got a really nice ass, Q.”

“Yeah? You like it?”

James is languidly jerking off, the backs of his fingers brushing against Quentin’s cock. “Fuck, I like it a _lot_.” 

Quentin catches his mouth, their lips slotting together, fitting _just so_ , kissing him wet and open. He lets out a whine when James presses their cocks together, moving his hand, light and gentle, over them. “You can finger me to get me ready.” 

“Yeah, okay.” James is blushing, and Quentin is grabbing the lube, concentrating especially hard on not falling over. “That’s another thing you like?”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. He settles on James’ lap. “I like it a lot. I like—you know, feeling full.”

James is _blushing_ , pink extending from his cheeks down to his flushed upper chest, his nipples pebbled and rosy. “Yeah.” 

He kisses Quentin, who is awkwardly clutching his economy size Intimate Earth Anal Ease Lube and trying desperately not to be unsexy. They bump noses, teeth clacking when they kiss, and Quentin chuckles, kissing down over the stubble on James’ jaw and relishing the slight burn against his lips. “Gimme your hand.”

“Oh—okay,” James murmurs, watching, wide-eyed as Quentin coats his fingers with a generous helping of lube.

“And—here,” Quentin says, hitching himself up so his knees are pressed into the sofa cushions. “Touch me.” He presses his head to James’ shoulder, sighing as he feels slick fingers exploring between his cheeks, teasing over his rim. His cock throbs, little pulses of pleasure spreading through his hips as James presses, tentatively, at his entrance.

“Tell me—you have to tell me if it hurts.” James’ blue eyes are blown almost black, his cock standing tall and hard. Quentin’s never taken a cock this big, but a few of his toys are bigger. He knows—better than he did last night—what he’s supposed to be doing.

“It’s not gonna.” He pushes down against James’ fingers and feels the tip of one slip inside. “I know how to do this. I’m in charge—you don’t—ah—” Quentin bares down, and James gasps as his finger slips inside to the first knuckle. “—you don’t need to worry about anything. Just do what I say.”

James nods, looking a little staggered, like he doesn’t quite believe Quentin. “Okay, yeah. It’s gonna feel good,” he murmurs, like he’s reassuring himself. Which is cute, really, but Quentin’s been ready for this for—God, since it started getting hot and James permanently removed his shirt. 

“Yeah, it is,” he says. “I want two inside me. I can take it. Feels good. You liked it—huh?”

James nods, pink-cheeked. A second finger presses inside, and Quentin breathes an almost _relieved_ sigh—it’s enough to feel the slight tingling burn in his thighs, the promise of fullness in his ass. “That’s it,” he says absently, letting himself relax around James’ fingers, his cock jerking as he pushes himself further down. There’s a warm bead of precome at his tip, warmth and need swirling in the pit of his stomach, his cock throbbing. “How’s it feel?”

“So smooth,” James murmurs. “And tight.” James catches Quentin’s lips and kisses him again, soft and tender, groaning into his mouth as Quentin starts to ride his fingers. James pulls back and watches Quentin, his cock bouncing as he moves, opening and opening, taking James’ fingers as far as he can. 

“More lube—” His ears are burning, and his stomach _flips_. This isn’t _him_ , but he’s in James’ fucking lakehouse and he’s riding James’ fingers and moaning while James looks at him like he’s some kind of gay sex god, which is absolutely _not a fact_ , and yet. He gasps as James’ fingertips glance against his prostate, shivering and gripping James’ shoulder. “God—oh _yeah_ —”

“Is that—”

“Fuck yeah—right there— _oh_ —” Quentin presses his hands into James’ pecs, scratching his fingers through his soft tawny chest hair. 

James is panting, sweat beading on his forehead. He fumbles with the lube as Quentin rocks on his fingers, thrilling when James slips another inside, leaning into the stretch and release. James murmurs Quentin’s name, mouths at his collarbone. “You feel so hot inside.”

Quentin hums, pushing himself down slow this time and taking James’ fingers to the base, rocking forward so he brushes against James’ dick. “You’re doing good,” Quentin whispers, “getting me ready.”

“I’m not doing anything,” James protests. He’s staring at Quentin’s dick, watching it bob as Quentin grinds down on his hand. 

“You are. I could come just like this. But—but I’m gonna ride your dick.”

James makes a choked off sound and grips Quentin’s ass, kneading it. “ _Fuck._ ”

Quentin whimpers, angling himself so James’ fingers drag against that little bundle of nerves each time, sparks gathering low in his gut, building like an electrical storm, the air between them thick with energy. “I’m—I’m ready. Get—get the lube all over your dick—”

James is watching him, mouth agape, but he does as Quentin says, Quentin watching him hungrily as he coats his long, thick cock with lube. “Is—” He swallows, throat clicking. “—is that good?”

“Yeah.” Quentin looks down at James’ slicked up cock, and he _shivers_ , his dick aching, leaking little drops of pearly precome from his slit. “You can take your fingers out,” he murmurs, “and I’ll—I’m ready. You good?”

James nods mutely, bringing both hands to Quentin’s hips, trembling and pink all over. Quentin takes it in, and he saves a mental snapshot of the image—James’ broad, strong hands bracketing his hips, his own cock flushed red and wet, James’ dick, covered with lube and standing tall against his stomach. He doesn’t know why there are people who _aren’t_ queer, like not even a little. Because this is really fucking—maybe the hottest thing he’s ever seen. 

“I’m gonna—” Quentin lines himself up above James’ cock, settling so that the head presses right at his entrance, holding it with one hand and _pressing_ , shuddering at the delicious stretch, crying out when the head pops inside. “—fuck—oh _fuck_ , yeah—” He wants to take it inside all at once, split himself open. Instead, he goes slow, watching James’ face, etched with wonder and desire, as he takes him all the way to the base. He lets out a strangled sound, clenching down around the thick base, rocking a little, lost in the fullness, the ache, the _burn_. “Oh my _God_ —fuck—you’re _big_.” 

“Yeah?” James’ voice is low and rough, little gasps falling from his lips with each movement that Quentin makes. “Is that—is that good?”

Quentin smiles, a little shaky. He feels _high_ , like his head is filled with clouds. “I’ve never taken a dick this big.” He licks his lips and grips James’ shoulders. “And it feels really—” Quentin’s whole body jerks, his ass clenching around James’ cock. “—fucking good. I’m gonna—I’m gonna ride you—nnngh—okay? I wanna make you come inside me.”

James makes a sound like he’s been punched when Quentin starts to move; Quentin can see his abs tensing, the muscles in his arms jumping as he snaps his hips, finding his rhythm, opening for James and taking him, one hand on his shoulder, the other pressed to the center of his chest. “Oh— _oh_ —Q—” 

“Issit good?” 

“Tight, it’s _tight_ —” James has his eyes closed, his head thrown back, making low keening sounds as Quentin rolls his hips, rocking in continuous motion. 

Pleasure curls deep in Quentin’s belly, expanding from the fullness, the drag and stretch of James’ thick cock inside. James is _trembling_ , his abs jerking, legs shaking, and he’s making soft _uh-uh-uh_ sounds as Quentin fucks him, riding him faster now, leaning forward the slightest bit so that James’ cock hits right where he wants it. Quentin’s dick jumps with every down thrust, tension spooling tight in his core. 

“Touch me,” Quentin whispers close to James’ ear. James makes a punched out sound, looking at Quentin a bit like he’s drunk, but he gets the message through the sex haze and grabs Quentin’s cock, jerking him off a little clumsily. But it feels fucking _phenomenal_ since Quentin’s been on edge thinking about James’ big cock inside him all day, and his own dick is slick with precome and the lube still on James’ fingers so he can just snap his hips and fuck into James’ slippery-tight fist, grinding down and taking him. “Yeah, that’s— _ah_ —perfect. I’m so fucking close—just a little more. Here—”

Quentin grabs the lube and drizzles a line of slick over James’ hand and his cock. “Just hold it tight and go a little faster.”

“Y-yeah—Q—” James moans, arching his back, as Quentin rocks forward thrusting his slicked-up cock into the hot-wet-snug grip of James’ fist. 

“God, yeah, that’s fucking _good_ ,” Quentin murmurs, throwing his head back, grinding down and rolling his hips, drawing James’ cock hard into him, fucking his fist. He shrugs his shoulders back, stretching and shivering, prickles descending from the top of his head to the base of his spine. “You make me feel so good.”

“ _Oh_ —oh—oh my _God_.” James grabs his hip, mouth falling open as Quentin rides him hard and fast. “Q—I’m—hhhnnnn—” James’ body seizes up, his muscles crunching up, body nearly folding in half as he makes a strangled sound, digging his fingers into Quentin’s hip and bucking up into him. Quentin swears he can feel it, James’ pleasure spilling into him. He catches James’ lips in a deep, wet kiss, sucking his bottom beneath his teeth as he sighs into Quentin’s mouth. 

He combs his fingers through James’ shaggy gold-brown hair. “Did you—”

“Yeah—I— _fuck_ —sorry—”

“No—just, _just_ stay like that.” Quentin wraps his hand around his cock and rocks forward, moving just enough to _feel_ James’ still-hard cock inside him, jerking off hard and fast and—he’s so _close_ —so _full_ —his nipples hard and heavy, his stomach coiling, thighs clenching. He bares down hard, his body simmering with ever-increasing need. “Oh my _God_ —”

“I still feel you,” James murmurs, clutching Quentin’s thighs and thrusting up into him with force, “inside me—from yesterday—that’s what I was thinking about when—when I came—”

Quentin’s orgasm explodes through him, his hips and ass clenching, stomach swooping and toes curling up as he spills onto James’ abs, painting them white.

“ _Jesus Christ_ , James—” He grabs James’ side, nails digging in as the aftershocks glide through him, rolling like gentle waves, on and on. He flops against James’ shoulder, panting, his legs burning, muscles twitching. James pulls him into a kiss, moaning and licking at the seam of his lips. 

“That was—nice.” 

“Yeah, well. Yeah. It was.” Quentin ducks his head and gently disentangles himself from James, gently pulling off. “Clean up?”

He nods and—that’s what they do. They shower—and again, _make out_ in the shower like they’re fifteen and snuck into the master bath. James jokes that they should have been doing this for _years_ , and Quentin laughs it off because he knows, _knows,_ this thing with him and James is contained in this week. And, as best he knows how, he tries to be okay with that. He’s not letting his shitty fucking habit of wanting people he can’t have screw up another friendship, when Julia is—well, she’s Julia. He has a lot of complicated feelings there. He doesn’t need extra complicated feelings about the guy who will _very likely_ be her boyfriend again come next week. 

So he just settles into the feeling that for now, he’s _wanted_ , even if there’s nothing beyond just that. He watches his shirtless friend fix a frozen pizza and drinks another wine cooler. There’s a weird, greasy, almost-guilty feeling in the pit of his stomach. He knows they didn’t do anything _wrong_ , but it feels, like so many things in Quentin’s life, the seed of a big, fucked up mistake. 

Over the next few days, he waits for James to freak out or tell him to move out, but he doesn’t. And things return to a new normal once James drives him home.

~~***~~

 _“And then what?” Eliot now has his fingers wrapped around Quentin’s cock, and he’s licking at his neck, which is_ distracting _, and Quentin can’t fucking think._

_“Uh. I don’t know. I mean—”_

_“What’s the end of the story?”_

_“That was—sorry to disappoint—that’s pretty much it.” Quentin whimpers and pushes his cock into Eliot’s hand, as if to remind him to continue what he started. “Now are we—just out here for stargazing or—are you going to fuck me?”_

_“Wouldn’t you like to know?”_

_“I mean, I think I will know. You’re holding my dick, so I was just wondering if you were going to do something with it or—”_

_“I was. But you didn’t finish.”_

_“Oh yeah. I did. We were fine. No one caught feelings. It wasn’t weird.” Quentin nips at Eliot’s shoulder. “Now—I have needs—”_

_“Not so fast. James got back together with Julia?”_

_“He did. They were together until—well. You know.”_

_“Yeah. But they broke up a couple other times?”_

_“Uh—” Quentin swallows. “Yeah they did. So—”_

_“Don’t try to tell me he didn’t come knocking at your door. Because your door was across the fucking hall. And you’re an excellent lay.”_

_“Gee—thanks? I’m not sure—how to take that, exactly.”_

_“It’s a compliment,” Eliot says. He moves his hand away from Quentin’s aching dick and grabs his ass. “So, did he come back for more?”_

_“God, why does it matter?”_

_“I’m invested now. I like thinking about little Quentin—”_

_“It was like… four years ago.”_

_“—getting a good fucking. You deserve that. So—did it happen again?”_

_“What do I get if I tell you?”_

_“My mouth, my hands, or my cock. In any combination.”_

_“I think you’ve shown I can have that, like, literally any time.”_

_“Fine. I’ll do a design solo, and you can have the morning off tomorrow.”_

_“God—you must really want to know.” Quentin takes a deep breath in, for_ drama _. “So…”_

_“So?”_

_“Yeah. We fucked like three times after that.”_

_“I need details.”_

_“Do I look like Scheherazade?”_

_“In that you’re required to keep me entertained or I’ll take away my favor? Yes, absolutely.”_

_“Later, I’ll tell you all about it—right now, though. I’ll take you up on the first offer.”_

_“Hmm.” Eliot taps his chin. “I’ll check my calendar. I think I might be able to do that for you.”_

_“Your dance card isn’t full?”_

_“Not at the moment. And you’re the prettiest boy in Fillory.” Eliot nuzzles at the skin just behind his ear, sending a thrill down his spine, his whole body stretching and curling around Eliot in response. A reflex drawing him in._

_He keeps thinking that he and Eliot will have their own inevitable conclusion. But it hasn’t ended yet. Secretly, in quiet moments, he hopes it doesn’t. He closes his eyes as Eliot spreads his legs and coaxes him open. He gives himself over to being wanted and lets go of everything else._

**Author's Note:**

> If you wanna hear me scream about Magicians et al on Tumblr, I'm at [@hoko-onchi-writes](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/hoko-onchi-writes). On Twitter I'm [@asavvymama](https://twitter.com/asavvymama), but I'm not there as much.


End file.
